


None Less Pure

by edgelord666



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley tries to seduce aziraphale but in a very very actually sad revictimizing way, Drunk Crowley (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Summaries, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Other, Protective Aziraphale, Revictimization, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Indulgent, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but not in a healthy way, god is a mean bitch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 11:11:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19722508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgelord666/pseuds/edgelord666
Summary: In which Crowley goes out at night to get hurt, fucked, or both, in hopes it will make him feel just a bit like he is loved. Aziraphale catches him with a strangers hands around his neck, and thinks Crowley has taken to working for hell again, tempting humans to violence.Caretaking, confusion, hurt/comfort, nd a lot of drunken sadness ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaaaaaaaaaa comments and kudos are super appreciated, this definitely isn't the end. I hope to make Crowley happy, eventually. But for now, enjoy him being sad and the victim of emotional manipulation by god :-)

Crowley held Aziraphale violently up by his collar against the burnt-red brick of the alleyway. The coarse wall is digging more into the demons other palm than the angel, having been rapidly thrust against it in an attempt to steady himself away from the bottle of wine he’d downed in the bar, and hopefully, intimidate his friend. The snake’s heartbeat is pounding in his ears, out of breath as he is.

Aziraphale had shown up seemingly out of nowhere a few moments earlier, intent on breaking up what he saw as an evil deed being encouraged, or a fight being fought. Having come in from the side of this dirty alleyway- a small detour from his walk to a nearby pastry shop- around the corner of a neon-lit club blaring music out from the door, he had seen enough: A drunken Crowley, shirt buttons all loose or off, leaning in close to a poor man's ear, legs tangled from the closeness of it all, before the man wrapped his all-too-steady hands around the demon’s bared neck. 

Crowley had looked like he was smiling into it, the smug bastard, even with the stench of fear and booze radiating off of him- what was he doing, inciting petty crime? If he was to do bad he could at least do better than a robbery - or at the very least not let himself be the one robbed! 

The crisp and freezing night air comes in waves, doing nothing to cool the angels head, and even less than nothing who he watches. The stranger’s hold only tightens around Crowley's neck, which is just as foreign to the man as he himself is to aziraphale.

They had only met an hour or so ago, of course, before coming to be in such a compromising position. He’d found our demon at the bar, already tipsy, dancing in a way that was a few decades too out of date, and still oozing sex at the skin. They’d talked, more about nothing than anything at all, and promptly gotten to the ‘better bit.’  
Crowley, who had been in a particular type of ineffable mood, was more than happy to take his drunk ass out behind a dumpster to get fucked. Or, hurt. Either? Both. He definitely wanted both. It’s what he came for. 

He wanted to feel the hot sting of life, something that had dulled at the edges from thousands of years worth of war, loss, and a god that had stopped paying attention. 

Rather than being the dealer at a Vegas-Style gambling hall as she had been, the entirety of existence was now being played by a bored almighty, curled up on her couch, opening a ‘Texas-Hold-Em’ app every so often, glancing at her losing hand, and putting the phone away. Crowley felt abandoned. He felt like he needed something more.

And, if what he knew how to accept was hurt, then who would stop him? The humans were born to sin, and he had made the choice to be reborn to do the same.

Knowing no one from heaven would care, and that no one from hell would bother, he’d made a habit of blowing off steam this way. A man- or, demon- can have a vice, right? His was just waiting for a warm body to take him back to theirs, kiss him like he mattered, and hurt him like they cared. 

He wanted someone to put him on his knees like rapture was upon him, to take his breath away so he could feel what it was like to be given it again, and to make his skin redder than the first day of genesis, when darkness collided with unsightly, unfamiliar, uncanny light.

Only marginally more distressing than a drug habit.

Easy to misconstrue, though, from the outside.

Aziraphale’s blood boiled to think after all this talk of ‘our side,’ and an entire damned apocalypse, that the serpent could still have the gall to go out and find mischief to report back to demonic higher ups. 

When the man pushing Crowley’s thin frame against the wall moved his hand to the demon’s back pocket, Aziraphale stopped mulling over with a face like the head of a flute and came strutting into the middle, with a few choice words for his friend of 6000 years. If he wanted to act like a demon, then let him be treated like one! Let him be told off like one, at least. 

“Anthony J. Crowley! Just what do you think you are doing at a time like this?!”

Crowley's wings came out from the severe shock of seeing him, and nearly hurt his neck from the drunken and rigid movements he tried to separate the human from him. Panic filled his stomach, along with a few bottles of wine, and a coffee from the morning. He moved like a robot that’d just been brought to life by a jolt of electricity, if that robot also had arthritis, and a crick in its neck. And an outstanding need for oiling. Possibly a need for new parts, as well. 

The very scared looking man ran away behind the dumpster while they weren’t looking, Aziraphale coming closer as crowley backs away in an awkward and lulled-then-rapid manner. For weeks after, the man thinks God was teaching him a lesson for cheating on his wife. God was not.

“You absolute fiendish- You pigheaded- You are a- a snake, Crowley! All this talk of ‘our side’ this, ‘humanity’ that- and you still go out to work for the council of hell!” He yells, more hurt than he intended to sound.

The demon trips on a set of boxes near the trash, falls back, catches himself on his wings, and somehow manages to spring himself forward from them towards the eavesdropping celestial.  
That’s how he came to, with his weak, adrenaline filled arms to pin his friend against the wall, only succeeding for the sheer blunt force. 

Now what to do? He can’t think straight. Everything is dizzying and too much and not at all enough. He wants to get hurt, wants to scream and dance and absolutely go the fuck to sleep. Anything but this, really. 

“It’s none of your business, angel!” Crowley sneers before the man can get in another damned word about what’s going on, his face close enough that aziraphale can see his blown pupils behind the dark glasses. He mistakes them as a rush of adrenaline. He isn’t wrong, not entirely.

Jesus christ, this isn’t what he wanted when he’d asked to be punished. 

“None of my business? I have just seen you tempt this innocent man to violence!” the angel proclaims, head tilted down to meet the others eyes. He looks all too surprised -and then, slightly concerned- when Crowley pushes himself off from the wall, stumbles back, and braces himself against the other side of the alley, catching his breath. 

He coughs a bit into his hand, which, thanks to lack of motor control, is just barely there on time, and a tad off center. That man had a fucking good grip in all the wrong places to squeeze a throat. 

All crowley had been looking for was a bit of trouble, someone to take my mind off of things. Not necessarily for the sake of sin, but, it was a part of what he wanted. Someone to inflict a little suffering onto him for a change.

The angel just had to choose now to intervene, didn’t he? Crowley is too drunk for this, too caught off guard, too- too- oh boy, he is dizzy. Maybe it’s good he did intervene. 

Breath, in and out. That’s better. Are there any pillows around?

He takes a long, deep swigs of air that move his entire chest out, still trying to glare at the angel before him. His eyes are a bit too tired, his throat a bit too sore.

Breathing is a bit of a chore when you’re a bottle- or was it two now?- of wine in, and freshly released from a firm grip. Speaking of, that’s a very stern stare from his sharply-dressed acquaintance. He always dresses so nicely, he never sells any of his books. Does he miracle the clothes or just buy them? But he doesn't sell any books so- oh, is he still talking? 

“I thought we were beyond this, Crowley! Our side! You needn’t prey on humans, my dear boy, Hauster no longer is-”

As Aziraphale continues his sentence on, Crowley slowly reacts to the implication he was performing a demonic deed for the sake of hell, interrupting some further elaboration from the angel.

“Oi-! Who said i was tempting? You clever-!” he made a strangled noise, finishing the words he can’t say, spat out with a face redder than, and a mouth quicker than an uncapped fire hydrant. 

“’m not-! Aagh!” he stomps his foot the best he can.

Being in a headspace of needing to be disciplined or, just to be controlled, is one hell of a thing. What Crowley wants to say is something along the lines of ‘please call me dear boy again,’ or ‘I am very uncomfortable and very hard, please stop looking at me, it’s making this worse,’ ‘i’m not a traitor, i’d never go back to hell when i have you,’ or even to tell the entire truth and say ‘Go home, i’m a filthy sinner, and i came here tonight to get fucked by a random man and, hopefully, to get beat up a bit as well to forget that i miss god her fucking self.’- but all he can manage is a quickfire, sarcastic, slurred response. 

“This Isn’t a busi- is not- not a business interaction, dear.” he mimics in a cruel way, and gestures vaguely around him, to the neon lights which spell the names of increasingly raunchy bars and gentlemen clubs. God above, why was he such a brat?

He should stop hinting at what he shouldn’t reveal but, a much larger part of him hopes Aziraphale will find out what he does here on nights like these.

The alcohol is buzzing in the red haired tempter’s core, a feeling only exacerbated by his angels studying, nearly disapproving eyes. He can almost see the gears stuck with dust and dirt grinding away in the divine beings mind, screeching together and not turning until- 

The angel looks around, realizing where they are. Something clicks, though, perhaps not completely. 

He believes Crowley is only here to serve a random fling of impulse. Not a thought out, planned, only slightly less sudden impulse. He thinks he is here to get into a fight, to die, to be hurt of his own accord. Perhaps to prove he can, without a miracle? 

Six thousand years, and he can’t figure this one out. 

“Dear boy,“ he begins again slowly, choosing his words as wisely as he can, “I have just seen you tempt that man-” he looks quickly for the mortal, decides he is gone for good, and attempts eye contact that Crowley definitively turns from, “-to place his hands around your neck.” the Angel stalls for a moment, eyes flicking back to the smaller mans, “You would not call that ‘demonic intervention’ of any kind?”

The demon in turn puts his head down, struggling to find the words he needs. He is deeply ashamed, embarrassed, drunk, and bordering on still having the results of ‘making an effort’ move uncomfortably against his pants which, regrettably, are getting tighter by the second. He wants to make his friend angry. He wants to apologize. He wants to cry. He hopes aziraphale doesn’t notice any of the above.

“I didn’ tempt him” Crowley starts, still catching his breath, gaining more height from leaning less against his place on the wall- “Well, alright, maybe. Maybe i did a little bit of the tempting but-” he tries to meet his eyes, looking more like a kicked puppy when he puts them back down to the dirty ground.  
“ it wasn’t- it wasn’t for them, okay? I jus’-” 

“You just what? Thought you would go out and get yourself into another fight, perhaps even discorporated without so much as a call to let me know where you are? Not so much as a- you could have been killed, Crowley!” 

“Discorporated.” the demon supplies, somehow wanting to cry more at the thought that he couldn’t have been killed.

“I do believe that is what I said.”

Crowley hiccups. Tears well in his eyes, and his bottom lip begins to tremble. He is far too drunk for this. He wants to be drunker. 

Aziraphale can smell the fear.

He decides it doesn’t matter why Crowley is here. Six thousand years, and he doesn’t need to know. He is bringing his friend home, getting him sober, and out of this place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is at aziraphales house, changing the subject often and needing to sleep.

“We are going home.” the angel states matter-of-factly. And they are, promptly, miracled into Aziraphale’s home, where he pushes a too-weak-to-protest crowley to his own sprawled-type sitting position on the couch.

The snake falls back onto the soft cushioned seating, all limp limbs and burning eyes. His current state of inebriation has made for some very quick mood changes as of late. Or perhaps, those began before he was drunk. He did. Afterall, have to be in a very righteous mood to want to be hurt by the humans. One moment he was in a bar, happy and chatting around, having no trouble finding someone to hurt him for a bit- and then next outside and infuriated at his friend. And then, of course, embarrassed, ashamed, aroused by the shame, and ashamed by being aroused. 

Now, he’s somewhere between helplessly depressed, giddy, and ready to flee to alpha centauri.

Funny how that works, isn’t it? 

“M’ hammered. Completely drunk.” he says, grinning, as if that substitutes an apology.

He hopes the smile will make aziraphale forget he may cry at any moment.

“You will show me where he hurt you, and you will not do this again.” The angel commands, and oh, that tone is unfortunate for someone who craves condescension. 

He treats Crowley -In Crowley’s own vision- like an insolent child, crouching to a level where he can safely turn his friend by the chin. In reality, he is being caring. Crowley still shivers under the touch, hoping it is foreplay to something harder, but the other discounts his reaction as the effects of too much wine. 

“I wasn’ hurt, there wasn’t a fight.” Crowley says, seeing the concern in his friend's eyes. His head moves easily with the angel’s touch, feeling incredibly overwhelmed by the softness of it. The pattern on the antique couch may possibly be the most tender thing he’s felt all night. Possibly in a lifetime.

“You are afraid.” The angel states.

“There is no use in deceit, I’ve seen the whole thing.” he clicks his tongue, eyebrows furrowed at the forming red imprint of a hand following the delicate vessels down the demon’s neck. He traces the lines with fingers light as feathers, looking down suddenly as his friend lets out a hitched breath, sunglasses fallen so far down he can see the pupils that are somehow still as wide as man’s capacity for both evil and good.

“Did you-” he looked fixedly on the angels collar rather than his skin. His warm, inviting, very holy skin “-Did ya hear what I told em’?” he asks, still slightly drunk and always too bold.

“There is no use in my knowing. It is over now and we may begin to-”

“Please.” The serpent interrupts. 

“I’m . . . what?” 

“I said please-” the lithe, disoriented man leans forward into his friends touch, savoring how the movement makes his pulse pound a little more, “asked him to do it reeeeeally nicely” 

The angel glances to his friends eyes, sees no spark of untruth, and then looks back down to the bruises forming under his hand. His nose crinkles as his tries to make sense of what the demon has just said. 

Crowley, on the other hand, is trying to prove himself; He is trying to prove his worth. He is a good kid, a good angel, a good demon- a good whatever you want to call him. He is useful. Let him be useful, for just a moment.

“You asked a mortal-” 

“Yes” 

“-to asphyxiate you to the point you nearly passed out-”

“Yes and yes”

“-in an alleyway behind some form of-” 

Crowley leans his head onto the other's chest, too tired and full of wine to care. “Gay bar, yes.” 

“You-” 

Aziraphale is visibly short circuiting, mind jumping to all the wrong possibilities. What could make Crowley think he deserves such treatment? Was hell possibly remotely controlling him from underground? Or perhaps it was - Oh. Oh.

“Said ‘pretty please.’” Crowley mumbles into the warm body beneath- or rather, above him. 

“And the human . . . He complied with this request, unaided by magic?” He asks, genuinely curious.

“I reckon’ it was ‘s good for him as it was for me- least till you showed up and started lecturing about morals and god and all that- those bores of topics” 

Waves of anxiety waft into the angel’s sense, even as his friend plays the part of a bothered business man, interrupted mid-vacation to be told paperwork was due.

“There is fear radiating from your body, Crowely. I can sense it getting stronger as we speak.” 

Was Crowley afraid? He only felt a little nervous, but, then, it could be the alcohol. He just felt like he needed to be useful. Felt like he did when he left the bar. He felt like he needed to sin, needed to hurt, needed to indulge. It was what demons did.

If he couldn’t be a good enough angel, he may as well be a good demon, right?

“You’re in a perfect position to try it, if you’d-if ya like.” He purrs in a low voice, which breaks at the end from the still too-tight vocal chords. “I'm a- i’m amenable to askin’ nicely again” 

The fear is getting stronger. Without realizing, even while extending an invitation, crowley’s wings have gotten a lot closer to his body. 

Aziraphale’s eyes flicker with something indiscernible, powerful even before he stands up straight with a decidedly firm gait. 

“You, my dear friend, are amenable to anything at present.” 

Crowley, bastard he is, takes that as a bit of flirting. He grins and tilts his head up, arms falling to his sides in a manner that almost seems sober. Has that headache been there for very long?

“Is that right? Why don’t ya tell me about it?” he asks, feigning amusement. He makes a slight gesture towards his lap, something of a ‘come here,’ just barely noticeable for what it is through his swishy limbs.

“You are drunk, Crowley. The drunkest i’ve possibly seen you since the spanish inquisition.”

“I’m just a bit loose, Alice, c’mon-”

“You are drunk and hurt. It wouldn’t be right.” 

“Then-” Crowley is beginning to get impatient, and can’t form his words, “ngk-! Just- just miracle me un-drunk!” he grunts.

“You are afraid. You don’t want what you are asking of me.”

“I’ve seen you do it before, do it now! Un-drunkify me! C’mon then!” He flails his arms like each is a seperate, very angry snake, “Un-drunk! NOW!” 

“How much have you had to-” 

“I’m a demon.” Crowley leans back onto the couch, arms now up so he can examine his palms like the map to el dorado may be hidden in their lines. He move his legs so he’s sitting criss-cross applesauce. He murmurs something about his wings, realizing they are still out.

“So you are.” Aziraphale sighs, and pulls up a chair from his dust-coated desk. This may prove to be a long night. 

“-And ‘m ugly.” Crowley looks suddenly very sad. Mood swings, again. 

Aziraphale looked both shocked that crowley would think himself to be ‘ugly’ as he so eloquently put it, but unsurprised by the mood’s onset itself. He’s been drunk with the demon many, many times over the centuries. However, there should be an emphasis placed on the ‘with’ aspect. It’s been perhaps a millennium since he last saw crowley drunk on his own, and mannerisms are textbook, but unfamiliar somehow. 

“You are- my dear boy you are anything but unappealing to-”

“But you won’t touch me.” He says, as if his saying it has decided it to be true. 

“You are drunk, you fiend.” Azirphale says softly, using the insult as more a term of endearment. It shows in his warm expression, which reads itself as a soft sigh, and a small cloud-covered sunshiny smile.

“If i wasn’?”

“But you are.”

“My bentley woulda jus’ fucked me already.” his head moves up like a seal balancing a ball on it’s nose, maybe looking for where the car might be. “If she wasn’ a car, of course. But she is.” he looks an aziraphale, making eye contact, “She is a car.”

“Quite.”

The ticking of the wooden grandfather clock, a little out of tune, and a little off pace, fills every pocket of silence to the brim. Neither can tell if it is a blessing or a curse. Crowley looks to it’s golden embellishment, and then to the white cherubic fluff of hair on his angel’s head. It always seems illuminated, somehow. The time’s gold looks like it was meant for him, however dust-coated it may be.

“My side isn’t listening.’ No one’s side is. Theyall dont- they don’t care, don’t listen anymore. Not like those underground tibet fellas, all in the ground and in the dirt. Hell is dirt-y, but they don’ care about us anymore.” Crowley sighs heavily into his wings, as if he is revealing his darkest secret, “Don’ think they cared much to begin with.” 

Aziraphale looks at him for a moment, unsure of what to say. 

“Time keeps goin’ on and the earth gets covered- just coated in corpses, and heaven gets cleaner and, what do i get? I get another houseplant.” he continues.

“Your houseplants are just lovely, Crowley. Possibly the loveliest in all of london.”

“And they’re about as scared of me as I am of god and apples.” 

Choosing to put aside the concept that a plant could be afraid, much less of crowley, aziraphale asks:

“You’re afraid of apples?”

Crowley leans back onto the couch, in a lying position, and closes his throbbing eyes. He doesn’t answer, only propping his legs up onto the arm rest and moving his wings to cover him completely. The clock keeps ticking, and the gold keeps shining. God, despite Crowley's best fears, has still abandoned the dealers table and does not come to smite him in his place.

“i'm afraid of rot.” he finally says, and rolling over, “-and m’ going to bed.” 

Aziraphale watches as he falls asleep within a few minutes, and then takes organizing his books. Clear your environment, then your mind. The mind can wait until tomorrow.

He does take a moment aside to miracle a bottle of water and some ibuprofen. Demon's don't need it but, the sentiment may help at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just,,,, didn't know how to progress w this I guess? more planning next time, will hopefully get this done right. I just. wanna, let, Crowley, be, happy,? but guess what i'm a hoe and it doesn't happen.

**Author's Note:**

> not super good with writing yet but aye we're getting there. I imagine Crowley would try to seduce aziraphale if he was drunk and sad enough? as sort of a "I can do this demon thing, I can be good at s o m e t h I n g. demons sin, I can sin." idk


End file.
